


Heaven's Light

by CBlue



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Murdering Joffrey, As In Mention Of Past Attempted Rape, But Fuck Joffrey He's A Bitch, Character Study, Dark Themes Consist With The Show, F/M, He's not in this but he's fucked up enough that it bleeds over even when he isn't there, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Masturbation, Sandor is vaguely adultish but probably not 40 but definitely not 20, Sansa Stark is 18, Sort of Mutual Masturbation?, They Masturbate To Each Other But Not With Each Other, actually let me use my favorite tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: The Little Bird, her voice was a lullaby. The harp to soothe the growling beast. A toothy grin at her ear as fingers plucked her like a harp. She sang, throat bared and voice high as that note rang out in her room.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	Heaven's Light

**Author's Note:**

> My First Posted Fic Of The Year and it's poetic masturbation.

_There's a reason for this,_ he thinks. There has to be a _fucking_ reason. Why else would this helpless, wingless bird be thrown from her nest and into the den of lions? At least that mouthy sister of hers was a wolf. Wolves survived the winter. Birds hid from the cold or flew south. Well, the South was no protection for the Little Bird. It was only a cage.

That auburn hair of fire that burned him to look at, burned him to think of, was threaded like rope atop her head. The Southern ladies always had those infernal braids, rope for their neck as they hung themselves on their precious jewels and silk. He never gave a shit about it. Never cared for their soft ways and quiet demeanors. Not till he cared for that bird.

She sang quietly to herself when she thought not a soul was listening, but Sandor always listened. He listened to everything even when people thought he wasn't. That was how you survived; knowing something someone else didn't. Sandor might have betrayed her once, telling the Queen Mother Cersei of her eighteenth year that she and the whore had held secret, but Sandor would not make the same mistake twice. This was his secret, his weakness to hold.

And sometimes he wondered if it were not weakness, but strength. Who the fuck sang in times like these? Bards whose small cocks weren't enough to get them paid so they had to croon and howl into everyone else's ears until they were either flogged or paid. And yet the bird sang. Northern songs if Sandor's lack of knowledge meant anything, but he didn't know the tunes of the Southern people. He didn't know what ballads they sang. The halls he grew in rang with screams and never a sweet song, never a lullaby that he could remember.

The Little Bird, her voice was a lullaby. The harp to soothe the growling beast. He heard whispers, whispers how he had spared her, saved her from her rape and kept every hand off of her. If he weren't a fucking bloody coward he might have chopped off Joffrey's hands for thinking of touching her, let alone what the brat bastard actually did to her. Let any of those fucking would be kings have that rotten piece of iron if it kept that blond bastard from ruling over the Andals, having his way as he would have with Sansa Stark.

He had already promised her he would do hateful things for her and she would be grateful for it. Perhaps as he took to his shadow and listened to her song this was hateful. It was greed, selfishness, _lust_. It was his and his alone and he kept it that way. Kept her secret vulnerability that not even the fucking whore who kept her company knew. Sandor alone would have this; Sandor alone would be the one to keep her safe.

Sandor had not been charged with it, but fuck oaths and vows. None of them meant a damn thing. Honor killed Ned Stark and it would kill plenty of men after him. Let Sandor live with his malice and vice. Let Sandor live with the Little Bird's secret songs that only lived in the darkness, lived with him.

His yellow teeth ground against one another, fingers twitching and heat building in his groin as he heard that sweet song. He wasn't a fucking fool. Knew he was a monster to look at, but in the shadows, there was nothing to look at. Only a presence to know. And Sandor had no doubt that Sansa knew he lurked. He wondered sometimes if it made her feel more safe or more in the presence of danger.

Relieving himself of his sentinel watch, Sandor's armor clanked, rolling like a silent storm cloud filled with ominous thunder as he hid himself in his shadows, the shadows that Sansa would never know. That nobody would ever know. He quickly undid his clasps, so much bloody armor just to look the part of a dog for that King Joffrey. Metal buggers to be flung off in his haste as he grasped for himself. Oh, the hateful things he would do for her. The _scornful things_. _Vile things_ that would make that pretty little nose sneer in disgust and never look upon him again.

But here in the dark, the dark where no one looked and no one could see, he could see false things. Pretty and round eyes with rosy lips puckering around the tip of his cock. Hateful and vile things as that fiery hair burned his palm, threaded through his fingers like scornful tendrils reflecting all of the hate that had been held between his hands. But that soft face in contrast to every harsh piece of his body is what he could see in the shadows, in the place of his calloused sword hand as his fingers clutched along his sheath, fighting against the light of the world to keep his darkness for moments longer.

That pretty little voice as it sang, as it hummed in the dark, shook him. He could feel himself in her throat, shaking with that tune that so carried her spirits. Carried his spirit in his small place of the Red Keep. Sandor bit on his tongue, bled his hatred into his mouth as he spilled his vulgarity into his hand. Shaking, Sandor's brow was beaded with sweat. His breath was short but in the shadows no one heard him. Hells, no one in the entire bloody fucking keep had ever heard Sandor. He was a dog, and no one minded dogs under the leash of the King.

Moving to his bed he snatched a rag, filth covered and foul-smelling, to wipe at himself. He grimaced, already missing the visions that only darkness brought. Already thinking of his worries that would come with sunrise. Heaving a sigh, Sandor finished doffing his armor. The heavy pieces were the thunder finally crashing as he succumbed to that sweet release of the rainstorm, settling into his bed. When he closed his eyes there were still visions, still things he could remain within the dark, just until the sunrise.

* * *

Sansa had never touched herself. It had been considered unladylike as far as she knew. In fact, the only regard she had ever held for her womanhood is when she had first bled and that was near six winters ago. Well, what could constitute as six winters when Winterfell had been such an eternal winter, especially in comparison to the warm sun of the South. But as she had turned to that fatal year that had once been a blessing and was now a curse, Queen Cersei seemed intent on grooming her. Shae, her handmaiden, has tried to help, but Sansa was quiet embarrassed about the entire debacle.

Embarrassed was putting it lightly. Embarrass is what Arya used to do to her in front of Joffrey when Joffrey still loved her. Now the king held nothing but hatred for her, and now her heart was always bleeding. Queen Cersei had suggested, to make the transition easier, that… Well…

Sansa's cheeks flushed at the thought. The thought of taking herself, pleasuring her own sex to help it grow accustomed to how her husband would treat it in order that they may produce an heir. Sansa hadn't a clue how to go about that. When Shae had learned of Queen Cersei's advices she had clicked her tongue but not disagreed. The handmaiden had tried to speak softly, offer knowledge on things that had caused Sansa to dismiss her early.

Now that Sansa was here, staring at her hand, she rather wished that she had not been so quick to dismiss her. It had been quite some time since the first suggestion had been proposed by Queen Cersei, but always did Sansa feel the pressure of her gaze both in court and throughout the keep. It made her hand feel heavy; it made her heart feel dull. All her life she had dreamed of her first being an intimate moment, filled with passion and true love. Now it was an ache, a duty.

Sansa grimaced, pulling her skirt up as her hand began to shake. How did she even start? She had read books, in secret without her mother's knowledge, as every girl she imagined, but she had no clue how one went about doing it in a nonfictional world. In something beyond letters and writings. Frightened, she allowed one finger to find it. Find this hole that would be filled and abused, that could have possibly already been filled and abused had it not been for Sandor Clegane.

What an odd thought to think of in this moment. Perhaps not entirely unconnected, but not the face Sansa would have thought herself to imagine in the moment. Those yellow teeth and breath were a stench to her senses. That cold gleam in his eye like flint against steel, a blade against a whetstone, as he promised her she would be grateful. Grateful for his foul things. Sansa chewed at her lips, cheeks flushing.

When she had envisioned such tender moments, she had envisioned a lean, young, and handsome man. One with delicate fingers that knew the touch of the finest furs. Fingers as soft as Joffrey's. Now, though, her thoughts entertained the idea of a larger hand. Calloused fingers that she could feel like stones on her body, causing tension where once there might have been only the rubbing of silk. Sansa gasped as she found it, finger still searching even as her mind wandered further, finger digging deep for a moment.

She paused there, holding herself for a moment as she caught her breath. Already her cheeks burned and her brow had built with sweat but whether that was from the precipice at which she stood or her churning thoughts remained to be seen. Furrowing her brow in concentration, Sansa began to move her finger, trying to find this sacred, treasured spot. The only thing she had succeeded at doing was leaving herself unsatisfied. It was barely anything as soon as she had grown accustomed to her finger. Perhaps another finger would do, stretch about for that telltale pain and pleasure she had read about.

Adding another finger added another thought. Would one of Sandor's fingers be like two of her own? Three? Would he have already burned her, prodding at her like a cooking bird? Would he have known how to pleasure her? Take her with just his hand? Would he whisper into her ear in a surprisingly tender fashion, or would he yank at her, spewing forth all the hatred and vile things he would do for her?

She could not help the slight moan that escaped her. Sansa's eyes widened, gasping as she slapped her free hand over her mouth. What horrible things to think! Especially at a time like this! She was trying to take herself, give herself pleasure so that she may be experienced when the time came to produce an heir, and yet here she was in the dark of the night envisioning the Hound of all people! What a rotten person to pretend to be filling her bed, her body, with his stench. With his sweating arms and his bulging muscles. His greasy hair and his sharp teeth put to her throat as that dog bared with that menacing smile in a way that should frighten her. But how could she be frightened when she felt so safe? It left her confused on the days she thought of it, and only in the night did those thoughts seem to clear.

A large hand, calloused and experienced, filled her one digit at a time in the dark. A toothy grin at her ear as fingers plucked her like a harp. She sang, throat bared and voice high as that note rang out in her room. Her first song like this. A new song for the dark; a new vision of clarity for the night. Sansa's body tensed when it had been a full three fingers. Three of hers but two of his, she had deemed. So tense was her body that in that small moment she wondered in a panic how anyone found pleasure in it. But after, oh after, that had been the pleasure. That leisure. That boneless feeling of satisfaction as those fingers had been plucked out of her.

She imagined him licking her glaze off of his hand in the same way that he ate at tourneys and feasts. Beard coated in whatever he had taken pleasure in. In the dark of the night, on this night, that was her. Sansa's cheeks flushed anew. Turning her gaze to her hand, she grimaced again. It was a shame she had not asked for Shae to stay, to help her clean afterward. To keep her thoughts from clinging to the shadows of the Red Keep. There was no hope in these walls, only misery. And Sansa Stark knew that all too well. But still, perhaps, for this one night, when Sansa closed her eyes she could keep those visions. Keep those things that would only happen in the dark.


End file.
